Rasmussen walked me up the steps near the house and set me down next to Troo and said, “Make sure she gets a bath,” and then he just walked away like he had something urgent to do. Probably to go cover up the footprints he’d left in the Fazios’ yard.
Troo said, “You like ’em?”
I said with a shocked voice, “Rasmussen?”
“No, you fruitcake… these.” She shoved the jar of fireflies into my hand. I could tell she was scared.
I looked down at the jar and said the first f word I could think of, “Fantastic.” And that made Troo stop licking her lips.
It was only later, when I was floating in the warm bath that Nell had run for me, that I recognized what that tune was that Rasmussen had been humming on the way home from the Fazios’. It was “Catch a Falling Star” by Perry Como, which was my favorite song last year. Me and Troo would put on a little show in the living room and sing and pretend we were catching falling stars and putting them in our jama pockets, saving them for a rainy day, until Hall screamed at us to shut the crap up.
Later, between the sheets, while she rubbed my back longer than she ever had, Troo said, “I figure it was Greasy Al who grabbed at you over at the Fazios’. You know how he’s always bullying.”
I didn’t even bother telling Troo that I was sure it was Rasmussen. What was the use?
“Don’t worry,” Troo said from the dark, the heat of her body mixing in with mine, the fireflies flashing on our dresser. “I got a plan to get him back. And my bike, too. Night, Sal.” She slipped her fingers into her mouth, squeezed her baby doll to her chest and turned over hard and quick like she couldn’t wait until tomorrow because tomorrow was the Fourth, the most exciting day of the summer next to the block party.
“Night, Troo.”
When I was sure she was asleep, I got up and went into Mother’s room and pulled her yellow nightie out from the bottom drawer of her dresser, and then I got Daddy’s Timex from the dressing table and put it on my wrist. After I said my prayers and told Daddy I was sorry like I did every night, I laid down at the foot of Mother’s bed and drifted off to the sound of rain that was strong enough to be good for the crops, and tried and tried to remember the last time I felt safe.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Saaally… Saaally.” The sound of her scream chased my dream away. I tried to jump out of bed, to get to her, to help her. Was Hall after her? Rasmussen? “I’m coming,” I yelled back, fighting to get untangled from Mother’s yellow nightie.
Troo came running from the back stairs into Mother’s room and flew up onto the bed next to me. “Wake the hell up, it’s almost seven thirty and we gotta be at the park by eight sharp.” She smacked me in the head with the pillow and then walked over to Mother’s dressing table. She didn’t ask me what I was doing sleeping in Mother’s room, but from her reflection in the mirror I thought maybe she already knew and was just daring me to say something about what she was doin’. She slid some blue eye shadow over her lids and ran a bit of the cherry red lipstick across her pouty lips and tipped the Evening in Paris bottle upside down and put some on her wrists. And then she got up and hit me one more time with the pillow and said, “I’ll meet you downstairs. Hurry. I got something to show you,” and ran off.
Just like Hall, Nell hadn’t come home last night. (Troo added that to her tattletale list with a bunch of patriotic stars.)
I pulled Mother’s nightie off and kissed Daddy’s watch and put them back where they belonged. When I was all dressed, I chased down the back steps, pushed on the screen door and had that radio weatherman ever been wrong. July Fourth, 1959, was beautiful. Today my Troo would win that bike-decorating prize because, boy oh boy, did her Schwinn look grand! She musta got up early and worked on it some more. I didn’t think she’d be able to ride it over to the park cuz it was so covered in flowers and streamers and crepe paper.
Troo was standing in front of the bike holding on to something that looked like a giant ice cream cone made out of that old Kroger bag she’d found down at the lagoon. She also had a crown or something on her head made out of aluminum foil that came to a bunch of points that reminded me of Butchy’s old dog collar.
She stood up extra straight and looked off into the distance with a serious face and when I didn’t say anything, she said, “Don’t you get it? I’m the Statue of Liberty.”
“Ohhhh,” I said, not wanting to get too close to that pointy crown, which looked like it could definitely poke your eye out.
“It’s the pièce de résistance, non?” Troo laughed. “I looked up a picture of it over at the library and Mrs. Kambowski has been teaching me some more French words. Did you know the statue was a present from France?”
I wished I had a Brownie camera. I would’ve taken a picture of Troo and run it up to the hospital to Mother. Troo looked so beautiful and so… foreign.
“Do you like my chapeau?”
I searched around for whatever the heck a chapeau was.
She pointed at the crown.
“Ohhh,” I said again. “But what’s the ice cream cone got to do with it?”
Troo shook it at me and said, “It’s not an ice cream cone, you nitwit. It’s her torch. I found an old sheet for her dress but I took it off because I kept trippin’ on it and fallin’ down.”
She carefully wheeled her bike through the backyard and down the front hill, me trailing behind. Looking at Troo that morning as we walked toward the park, the sun bouncing off her shiny chapeau, I knew what I had to do to protect her. I had to come up with some sort of a plan for my little Statue of Liberty. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Because if Rasmussen murdered and molested me, she would never be able to stand it. Nobody could whistle in the dark that loud, not even my Troo. So a scheme was what I needed. Like in one of those movies at the Uptown. Just like that Humphrey Bogart. He always had a scheme.
Yes, what I needed to do was get the goods on Rasmussen. Spy on him, catch him doing something that he shouldn’t or find some evidence, and then I could reveal him to everybody for what he really was. But maybe I wouldn’t start that until I had a chance to talk to Mary Lane, because she was the best spy in the neighborhood. Mary Lane was a regular Mata Hari. Or maybe I’d wait until after Sara Heinemann’s funeral, which was going to be tomorrow. Would Rasmussen go to the funeral? Sometimes in movies after somebody murdered somebody they would go to the funeral. Mary Lane always hung around after she lit a fire. Just stood there and watched it burn until there was nothing left but the smell and the smile on her face.
What a show!
Hundreds of kids and bikes and dogs with bows around their necks and even some baby buggies covered the big grassy area that ran along the banks of the Honey Creek. There were balloons hanging from the trees and picnic benches scattered around with paper tablecloths the same color as the flags on little sticks that everybody was waving around. The day was the hottest yet this summer and everybody was saying thank God for the shade. The Fourth was always hot around here, you could count on that. But this was even hotter than what you could count on.